


Homecoming

by MissEllaVation



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-22 23:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13775307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/pseuds/MissEllaVation
Summary: It's late spring, 1985, and while it's obvious that Edge and Bono have both caught feelings, probably years earlier, they will neither confirm nor deny.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This small thing takes place mere days after the last leg of the Unforgettable Fire tour, and a couple of months prior to Live Aid. It seems to me that the mid-80's are kind of a fic-less wasteland, so I figured I'd just slide on in there.
> 
> Anyway, this is the story of a celebratory night. U2 has become huge. Not quite Joshua Tree huge, but certainly Pride-on-the-radio-all-damn-day huge. Edge has had a bit to drink. This is his story. He’s silly, he’s confused, and when he gets horny he has visions of the future (this has happened to him in a couple of my fics, I think.) He has many words in his brain that he doesn’t say out loud. B&E wrasslin'? Inevitable.
> 
> The video for "Be Near Me" is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhAgQMqVxiE). It's kinda great (I think) but it also demonstrates just how out of whack U2 were in comparison with most of their contemporaries. And how much, actually, DARKER they were. (PJ bangs on about the darkness of U2, part 99 in a series.)
> 
> [Also, Edna O’Brien is real and I love her](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edna_O%27Brien). Just thought I’d stick her in the pub. (This is a "kitchen sink" kind of fic.)
> 
> Note: I’ve decided to stop apologizing for not writing enough smut. If you like my emo/mildly erotic stories, thanks, and enjoy, ‘cause that’s what I like to write. RPS is a strange thing to take on anyway. Some people disapprove of it, and I can understand that. So when I write, I try very hard to remember who B and E are, what they’ve been through, how long and how well they’ve known each other, and how this relationship might have evolved between 1976 and the present. I try to think carefully about Adam and Larry as well, even when they only have walk-on parts. Basically, I promise to try to be as respectful to them all as is humanly possible—while still foisting this particular narrative on them. In the end it’s all about love. — Management :)

 

 

*

We have, as a band, given up quite spectacularly on sobriety. Tonight in particular. Me especially. Why? Because we’ve come home! We’ve come home as conquering heroes, having slain countless fully-packed American hockey arenas. We are home, in Dublin, and we’re being plied with Guinness by everyone we know—and by everyone we don’t know. What kind of arseholes would we have to be to refuse this attention? The worst kind. Traitors to our city, our country, our culture. Traitors to the Republic itself! So what if I’m not technically Irish. I’m Irish enough tonight.

I should be at home, obviously, sitting on the couch with the baby in my arms and the telly tuned to something edifying, like a wildlife documentary. Giving my wife a break. Because we’ve barely just got back, and before we know it, the summer festival season will begin.

But ask me how I am tonight. Adam, _you_ ask me. No really. Go on. Ask.

I am wonderful, Adam! Just great. Why are you laughing? Everything is great. I love everything. I love everything and everyone. 

Music publications have been ringing me—not even Bono, just me!—for interviews. Everyone in this pub is vamping and miming along to the very un-U2ish strains of ABC's 'Be Near Me,' but it is _I_  who am ‘The Most Innovative Guitarist in Rock.’ I’m also ‘The Sound of the 80’s,' and I’m ‘Re-Imagining Rock for the 80’s.’ The main point being that we are in the 80’s, and I’m basically inventing them as I go along. The decade is mine.

One small publication even called me ‘The Brains Behind U2,’ But I think Bono can have that title if he wants it. I don’t mind. He’s certainly the heart behind U2. And the blue eyes behind U2. And, um…and.

What? No, I’m just talking to myself. Alright. Let me get up and walk around for a few minutes. No Larry, I’m okay. Don’t worry. I will arise now and go. First to the jacks, then out to wherever I've parked my car. Or something.

But this is like staggering through a James Ensor painting. The faces. Strangers lay their hands on me, patting my shoulders. Mostly my shoulders. Yes, yes, yes, let us all sing along to ABC! _Never had that feeling until I first met you! Never felt like kneeling, now I do! Yes I do-ooh-ooh!_   Hey, no. Don’t kiss me, Little Drunk Girl. Your lips are not the ones I’m thinking of. Also, I am a married man. I seek only the cool, fresh night air. Because if I’m going to vomit, I want to do it…not in here, anyway.

Out the door and around the back. A little alley, hidden from sight of the revelers and tourists of Temple Bar. Just me and the damp old brick walls, the cobblestones, and a couple of fragrant rubbish skips. Hm, I’d best avoid the rubbish skips. Might end up in one. There. A few gulps of fresh air is all it takes sometimes. I’m alright now. I’m fine. I could really just go home, and I probably should.

Oh, but here he comes now. Looking for me? Yes. With his hair chopped to several different lengths, and his leather jacket open over a blue shirt, and his jeans tucked into his boots. Taking deliberate steps, like a dancer. His little feet are so very nearly graceful, yet somehow he always seems on the verge of crashing into something. But he never does. I’m smiling in spite of myself; I’m almost laughing.

He knows I’m watching him. He’s almost laughing too. This happens to us. We see each other and start laughing. For no reason. Well, maybe for a reason.

His triangular smile, his warm, heavy little hand on my shoulder. “You alright, The Edge? Not going home yet, are you?”

He must have watched me leave the pub. Well, he must have _seen_ me leave anyway. No reason for me to infer naked intent on his part. His face, under the streetlight, is thin and pale as a slice of moon.

“Not yet, Bono. Just getting some fresh air.”

“I’ll keep you company then.”

We both lean against the wall, facing the same direction. Companionably. Not much to see out here but the building at the end of the alley, closed up and dark for the night. The back of the restaurant across the way, also closed. And of course, the rubbish skips.

Will he stay here with me or will we go back inside? He must know by now that I wouldn’t just leave. If I leave now—if I leave before it happens—the night will feel like a mistake. A half-thought, unfinished, unsettled. A broken promise. And I will lie awake worrying about it. Will he think I forgot? Will he think I’m angry? Will he think I didn’t want it? Or worst of all, what if he doesn’t even realize we’ve skipped it? What if he doesn’t think about it the way I do, in capital letters?

We are, all four of us, a band of huggers. It started early on, when we first went on tour. Each of us a little homesick and hungry, and almost pathetically young. A baby needs to be held or it won’t develop properly. But in some ways we stay babies all our lives; we always need human contact. These days we hug each other all the time, for all kinds of reasons. Most of these hugs are brotherly and supportive, with many pats on the back and the occasional small squeeze. Fans love to see the four of us hug each other after a show. They want to know that we really like each other, that our band grew out of true friendship. This is what makes us special. We know it, and the fans know it too.

It’s different with Bono.

How’s that for a thought that just took shape in my mind, in a complete sentence, in the cool night air of a back alley in Temple Bar? When I’m almost not even drunk anymore. When he’s standing right beside me.

_It’s different with Bono._

What makes The Hug—I give this one capital letters—different from the ordinary, lower-case hugs? Well, it lasts longer. It’s closer, warmer. Harder. It involves some elements of wrestling, I think. And sometimes there’s the addition of a kiss. Something ambiguous. A light brushing of lips that seems natural in the moment, but leaves you thinking, “I’ve just kissed my best friend on the mouth and it will probably happen again and frankly I hope it does.”

The Hug began as a simple good-night sort of thing between the two of us. After a session of writing or recording, or even just an evening down the pub. Sometimes it happened because we were pleased with ourselves. Other times, it happened because it was preferable to one of us killing the other.

Either way, It became habitual, and then it became a ritual. (I’ve rhymed. Have I just written a lyric?) And sometimes—tonight, for example—The Hug feels like my only real reason for hanging around wherever I happen to be.

The Hug feels good. The Hug feels right. But lately it has begun to feel like a preliminary. Like an aperitif. It has begun to feel like something I might like to change, to transmute. To prolong. If I let my hands rest just a bit lower down on his back. At the small of his back. Just for a minute. If I let him rest his head on my shoulder, if he wants to. If I touch his hair. If I even sort of even let my—

“Will we go back inside now or what?” The triangular smile again, quirking up just a little more at the left corner. The bright, horizontal eyes that have been to some dark places, and have seen too much, and probably see more than I want them to.

“Yeah, why not.”

“Once more into the breach, then.”

“Half a league, half a league.”

 

*

 

The shock of heat after the silence of the cool alley. The shifting bodies, the hair of strangers tickling your nose. The smell of strange shirts and blouses, the smell of perfume and dinners and houses that aren’t yours. And beer of course. And whiskey. But I’m okay now. Not feeling sick at all.

Abruptly, Bono puts both of his hands on my left shoulder. Leans his weight into it, in fact. I say _ow_ , but he doesn’t notice. He gets up on his tiptoes. Shouts in my ear. “Look, there’s Edna O’Brien!” He points across the room with his chin.

“What? Who?”

“The older dark-haired lady over there, by the bar. Her, with the scandalous novel that the priests used to burn. Remember? Sex and transgression in a small village or something?” He laughs. “And the book eventually got made into a film, and she wrote some other books as well…”

“Oh, that Edna O’Brien. Your woman with the books.” I do remember who she is. _The Girl With Green Eyes_. My mother liked that one a lot.

“Yeah! Anyway, she stopped me on my way to the jacks and asked me all sorts of uncomfortable questions.”

“Did you answer her?”

“Of course!”

“She might put you in a book.” And call it _The Boy With Blue Eyes_ , or _The Lad with Strong Thighs_.

“I hope she does. Her books are sexy.”

“She’s fifty if she’s a day, Bono.”

His grin carves deep channels next to his mouth. I can almost see what he’ll look like in ten years. I almost want to press fast-forward to get there. “Yesss,” he says. “An experienced older woman.”

I might have to kill her now. I might have to kill Edna Fucking O’Brien, scandalous Irish literary treasure. I half-laugh at Bono and then I just stand there, letting this feeling take shape. It’s absurd, but it _is_ something I feel.

Meanwhile Larry has risen from our table at the back, and he elbows his way toward us now, brushing girls off himself like dandruff flakes. Of course he doesn’t have any real dandruff. His coif is burnished gold under the amber lights. He looks from one of us to the other and says, “hiya.” Then he squints into the distance. “Isn’t that Edna O’Brien?”

We both stare at him.

“What, did you think I was illiterate or something?”

Bono says _nooo_ , and I shake my head vehemently until it feels like something inside has come loose. I might still be drunk after all.

Larry looks starstruck. “I’m gonna say hello to her. Just wish I had my book for her to sign.”

He goes off through the crowd, elbowing. He has strong elbows, of course. We watch him approach Miss O’Brien and tap her arm. She turns around and beams at him.

I shake my head again. “What just happened?”

“I wish I knew. Oh, look at them. Sure, she’ll put Larry in a book now instead of me.”

“Probably.”

“Well, you didn’t have to agree _quite_ so quickly, Edge.” Fake pout. “Do you really think she’d rather write about Larry than me?”

Oh, his face. One second ago it was hard and flinty, all sharp corners and points, but now he’s soft and vulnerable as a young woman. How does he do this? It’s the lips, I think. The way they can plump up and hide his neat little teeth. Is he being serious? And if he is, what can I say? _Some girls just really like Larry. But I’m not those girls. I would write about you. Your face is hypnotic. It’s special and strange. I’m fascinated by your nose: the narrow indentation at the bridge, the precipitous length, the projection, the bit of chiseling at the tip that saves it all from being too much. Watching you is part of my job. I have to do it; I have to keep track of you. I don’t mind. The cool girls seem to like you best, so I guess that makes me one of them._ Why am I thinking these things? Why are they becoming words in my head? Why now? And why is he still waiting for me to answer this silly Edna O’Brien thing?

“I can’t answer your question, Bono. I can’t claim to understand the tastes of a middle-aged woman.”

He nods, looking thoughtful. But there’s a spark of mischief there too. “What about Adam?”

“Oh, Adam. Adam would have Edna naked before she could even get her typewriter out.”

And now he laughs, thank goodness, a big satisfying whoop. He grabs the back of my neck, pulls me toward him, touches his forehead to mine. We are both a little too warm and our skin is damp. My body courses, briefly, with something close to bliss. This isn’t supposed to happen, but I don’t care. Do I?

“I really should get home, Bono.”

“If you must. I’ll walk you out.”

Without saying another word about it, we go back to the alley. The alley doesn’t lead to my car; it doesn’t lead home. It leads nowhere. We both know this.

“Well.”

“Yeah. See you in a couple of days, I guess.”

No one initiates anything. We simply fall toward each other.

We keep our arms at a safe, shoulder-blade level around each other’s backs, but after a bit I let mine slip lower, and Bono, in an act of derring-do, shifts one arm up around my neck. The side of his face is just under my ear, his breath stirs my hair. This has happened before—I mean, ages ago, and if I think about it, it's been going on forever. But something else is different tonight. There is some involvement of legs, feet. A shuffling of those parts, as if they’re making space for something new, some extra point of contact. Just the slightest confluence of the pelvic bones, and of the flesh those bones are made to hold in place.

Christ, to even think about it.

He must feel it.

It’s a standoff. We don’t move. I won’t move if he won’t. _If you won’t_. It’s the drink, of course. Nothing more. I’ve had too much, and Bono’s eyes were swimming with it earlier; he was practically afloat. Wasn’t he? My arms hover around his waist, resting there as lightly as I can manage. I want to hold tight, to pull him in close and see what will happen, but I can't. How could I possibly? I could. Just a tiny bit. He raises his head. The slight brush of his lips. As always. But then he leans forward, barely, minutely, just enough to give me a tentative little bump that sets me reeling. Oh.

I want him. Fuck. I want _him_. This is something that is really happening. I want to push him back against the wall. My knee between his legs. Make him feel it. This desire. But I don’t move. Of course I don’t. There are a million very good reasons not to. His arm around my neck is so  _warm._ If I turned my head even a fraction of an inch I could kiss it, my lips on his leather sleeve. I'm caught; immobilized.

I hear nothing for a whole minute but his breathing, and mine, and my own heartbeat, and a bus sighing to a stop somewhere out on the Quay. Then his voice, muffled against my shoulder.

“Are we going to acknowledge this now?”

My brain is a wad of chewed bubble gum. “This?”

He raises his head, takes my face between his hands. Their warmth is shocking. Another kiss, but this time the brush of lips is a bit more forceful, with a tiny hint of the tip of his tongue. “This,” he says.

Oh. It almost makes sense, doesn’t it? Isn't it just right? This protracted dance between us? We are partners. Brain and heart. We’re the ones who struggle the most; who hurt the most when something isn’t right. We’re the ones with the funny names and the strange faces. We’re out in front. We have to take responsibility. We give birth to every song and every show. We take the brunt, and we bring each other through. But.

“Bono. No. Not just yet.”

Another bump. I don't know what else to call it, because to name it would make it real. Agonizing. A spark, a scatter of hot embers through my limbs. It takes all my strength not to press him into the brick wall, not to grab him in handfuls, not to devour his mouth.

“Not just yet?” 

I have to look at him, look into his eyes. God, Bono. No. You know better. Not here. Not this summer. Not in Dublin where every eye is on us. Not in a country that’s only just stopped banning books. Not while my wife and babies are waiting for me at home. I can almost see—I see the world opening up, soon, opening for us just like a lover, like a beautiful lover, and when it does we can do anything we want. Anything. We’ll be like aristocrats, we’ll get away with murder. Anything we want. You and me. It’s coming. You’ll make it come. But not just yet.

“No." I make my voice as tender as I can. Saying no is harsh, and anyway, it's not what I really want to say. "Not just yet.”

“Then go home.”

He shoves me away, but he’s smiling. Isn’t he? He’s alright. So am I. We’re a team. Nothing’s changed. We’ll go home and sleep it off; sleep with our beautiful wives and forget. Or not. It doesn’t matter. It almost doesn’t matter. We stand there looking at each other. I hurt everywhere. I hope he doesn't. 

“Your face,” he says, quietly, “is like alabaster in the dark.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, gobshite. It is. Doesn’t anyone ever tell you you’re pretty?”

“I guess. But not in terms of alabaster.” I still haven’t moved. He thinks I’m pretty? Why not. “Well, see you around, I guess.”

“See ya. Wouldn’t wanna be ya.”

“What the hell is that?”

“I heard someone say it once in America. In a truck stop outside Oklabraska.”

“America is certainly a very clever nation.”

"Yes. They are a nation of cunning linguists."

“Bono.”

“Edge. It's okay. Would you ever just go home?”

“I’m going.”

So as much as I want to stay, I turn away. In the nick of time, it turns out, because at that very moment a troupe of girls spills out the of the pub and enters the alley, arm-in-arm, singing  _oh be near me, be near._ My own Greek chorus, following me as I walk away.


End file.
